Chemistry

Just a story written about growing closer with my chemistry teacher.

I was going through a really tough time sophomore year with facing the death of my hip.  It was really hard on me.  This teacher, whose name was changed in the piece, helped me out greatly.

 

Picture credit to Keystone.

 

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The First

 

            I’m not supposed to be scared, right?  I mean, I’m a sophomore.  Not my first year here.  Not a big school.  Don’t have to make new friends.

            But hello, this is chemistry.  I’ve feared chemistry since when?  Probably since I heard the term.  It even sounds scary.  Chem-ist-ry.  I’m picturing equations I don’t understand, a pair of safety glasses permanently glued to my face, and massive explosions.  Hopefully chemistry won’t be like cooking.

            All right.  This is room four, huh?

            I glance up at the door number then left down the hall—students scurrying to classes and reluctantly breaking away from the pleasant conversation that goes with the flow of the hallway.  I look to the right to find that this is the last classroom in the hall going out into what I consider to be the center of the school.

            I remember this room.  Eka used to sit on the far side by the window in the mornings, with her short-cropped hair bent over what I assumed to be her homework.  Normally, when I peered through the thin window, she was with a tall, elegant-looking woman with short hair and a kind smile.

            I wonder who my teacher is.  That could be the scariest part about walking into the room.  What if he or she bites my head off?

            My rational side says, ‘Kiwi, why would any teacher have any reason to bite your head off on the first day of school?’  I’m partially reassured but refrain from stepping into the classroom.  Any other fears to kick?  I have the same class, right?  We all assumed we’d pretty much be stuck in science together for the long run…

            Big breath.  I step in.

            Hey.  It’s not that bad.  Rather oddly organized…  Am I really supposed to sit in those desks?  How will I keep from toppling over?  How will I rest my huge load of school work on them?  (I’m a sophomore—I’m going to get way more work, right?)

            UGH!  I catch sight of the back of the room.  Lab stations, like in Mr. Murtari’s room from 8^th grade.  Where we had to do labs—which obviously weren’t book work.  And they were scary.  This is chemistry—I’ll have to use those, won’t I?  Maybe I don’t like this so much.

            I remember Dana and Lindsay and turn to send them a smile that I hope is more confident than I feel.  We saunter to the back corner of the room, as is our normal home in class.  No teachers blast through the walls to yell at us or tell us we have assigned seats…

            Oh, right.  The teacher.  I should look into that, right?

            Oh, it’s her!  The tall one.  I’ve never seen her up close before. 

I notice the height right off the bat, of course, as it’s something I’m…lacking…in.  But beyond that, I like the feel she gives off.  A nice confidence that doesn’t drown me.  And, again, her elegance.  I go for the eyes next, unintentionally.  Very, very blue.  Incredibly blue.  Mum-colored-eyes blue.  The eyes I would consider “summer eyes.”  The eyes I used to want, until I realized a) I can’t change mine and b) forest/hazel isn’t that bad of a color.

‘She’s not a specimen to behold,’ my mind snaps at me.  Right.  My eyes shoot down for a moment and I stare at the tiled floor.

            This is my new science class.  This is my new science teacher.  This is my new science chair.

            This is completely as scary as the word chemistry sounds.

            …which is what she’s talking about, and what I should be paying attention to…

 

 

The Lab

 

            It’s been quite a while, and pay attention I have—for the most part.  We all slip once in a while, right?  While I’m talking to myself, I may as well host a little check in.

            I am tired.  I am dead, dead tired.  I don’t feel good, I’m upset, and I am grande mundo tired times ten.  T-I-R-E-D.  Tired enough to not care that I just completely butchered that sentence in my own mind.

            This lab is grinding at every nerve in my body.  So how is it that, despite that, I can rest my head on the crook of my elbow and almost fall asleep?  I mean, I would consider it an incredible feat if someone could fall asleep while something is grinding every nerve in his or her body.  Andi is working the lab like a pro.

            Minus the ‘pro’ part.  I’m pretty sure none of us knows what’s going on.  Do we ever?  I suppose maybe, in the end…

            They stopped talking.  That’s peculiar.  That usually means the teach—

            There’s a hand on my back.  Rubbing.  It feels nice.

            Traitor.  My body is not, I repeat: not supposed to enjoy being touched.  At all.  It is foul, and annoying, and I won’t put up with it.  Despite this I relax and take a deep breath.

            A little back rub feels nice…

            The inner-Kiwi (currently dubbed ever so Evil) is rolling her eyes at me.  Sometimes I just want to kick her out.

            I mumble my half of the conversation into my sweatshirt, which is nice and warm.  I don’t want to leave.  As the hand begins to fall away I raise my head and blink my eyes.  The teacher walks away as I reach up to rub at my blurring sight.

            “Did my chemistry teacher just give me a back rub?” I ask Andi incredulously.

            “Yes.”  She’s amused and goes back to the lab.

            I frown.

            Mrs. Carr, I correct silently.  I repeat it for good measure.  Mrs. Carr.

            I smile.

 

 

The Cloud that Joined the Storm

 

            A 52.  How could I manage a 52?  That’s 48 points below a 100.  There, I can do math when I’m calculating by what amount I failed.  Failed, bombed, and stunk completely.  Right.  I’m not exactly accustomed to that, I must admit.

            I try to turn my nose up.  Or shrug it off.  Something snags on my broad shoulders and it doesn’t roll down my arm and fall to the floor the way I wish it to.  It just sits, and sits.  Adds to the weight.

            When the tears come I’m not surprised.  Just numb, somewhat.  What I consider numb.  I’m falling and waiting to hit whatever rests so ominously at the bottom.

            That’s when the voices come out to tell me that I’m stupid.  That of course I failed, I don’t understand anything.  That it’s pointless to try, I’ll never understand, I’ll never amount to anything.

            My other feelings—voices—whatever they are—counter with points made about my previous school marks, my other accomplishments, and how I can do most of the things I set my heart and mind to.

            They battle.  Good, Evil.  Great, Bad.  Smart, Stupid.  Success, Failure.

            I’m just a host.  I feel the tears travel down my cheeks and feel disconnected from my thoughts.  They’re running in circles, eating their own tails.  It’s confusing and I hate it.  Hate myself?  No.  Hate my thoughts.  I don’t understand my thoughts.  How am I supposed to understand algebra if I don’t even know what I’m thinking?

            Well, this is pointless.  I reach for the tough act, try to bring it down over my shoulders like a protective cape.  After these few minutes I only have one period to go before I go home.  Maybe I’ll spend hours studying.  Maybe I’ll stare at the wall.

            These thoughts are foreign and yucky.

            Back to numb.

            I’m just a zombie, floating down the hallway.  I want to wonder what faces I pass, but that would take an ounce of curiosity that I just don’t possess.  For the life of me, I’m not feeling anything but pain.

            All these different thought patterns.  What I should be thinking, what I think I think I should be thinking, the way I am thinking, what I should be thinking in order to think correctly in the way I think I should think…

            Ridiculous.

            I wish I could just think, and have that be that.  That I could accept my thoughts and have them not be so painful.  But of course I can’t, because that would mean accepting that I’m stupid and useless and even when I’m like this—however sad and unbearable it is—I know that isn’t true.  It’s hidden, but I can still barely pin it as the truth.

            Back to chemistry.  A lab.  Please, Gods, God, Dog, Buddha, Mother Earth—don’t make me break down.  I can stand being bitter.  I’ll just avoid people so no one can feel my sharp tongue.  I’ll try to still my thoughts, keep my own sharp tongue from slashing me…

            Great.  Not an option.  Stupid, stupid Kiwi.  No, no, not stupid Kiwi.  A Kiwi in need of help…

            Hush, please, I plead into the depths of my mind.  Just a moment of peace and quiet to find my footing.  I can’t even get that.  I try to clear my thoughts, find my center—they tell me that’s the wrong thing to do, I’m not doing it right.  Well, if they would just leave me alone…

            May I go out into the hall, please and thank you?

            Her look pierces me, almost.  I wonder what she’s thinking.  Concerned?  Curious?  Think I’m off my rocker?  No, no, she wouldn’t think that.

            I’m allowed to leave.  Not quite sure what teacher would say no to an upset A student going out into the hall…  I don’t like that I thought that.  Wish I could erase it.  Can’t erase my thoughts.

            I don’t like these colors.  That’s what I’ve decided.  And since I can’t feel anything but pain and a whole lot of other yucky feelings I soooo want thrown out the window, I’ll just sit here watching things.  Observing.  Crying.  Panicking…

            The blue and yellow floats in my sight, creating swirls and blotches when I blink.  My face is blank, I know.  I used to spend hours in front of the mirror perfecting the blank face.  Ridiculous.  Now it comes naturally to me, sometimes.

            Footsteps far down the hall alert me to the presence of others.  Laura—kind, courteous Laura—passes me, probing with gently questioning eyes and a soft voice.  Am I alright?

            She’s getting the hang of me now.  When I say no, but I need to be alone, she understands.  Lets me be.  The others that go by are a blur, until I hear a familiar set of steps.

            The hawk is coming down the hall.  Mrs. Brown, the B Squared, is making her round.  I know she’s giving the eye to some of the students further down the hall.  Scaring them away?  I don’t know.  I like the eye.  It’s comforting.  When I look up, however, it’s not what I receive.

            I have never seen her with such soft eyes.  For a moment, looking into them, I feel like a young child with an injury.  Then it dawns on me that no, this is not a normal occurrence—there is a sophomore student outside in the hall crying.  Slouched down against the wall looking very small next to the bubbler.

            She comes down to check on me, despite her bad knees.  Guilt.  Why am I such a drama queen?  If I could just deal with things the way normal people do this wouldn’t be happening.   Am I making this all up?  Is this my sick way of getting attention?

            Stop it.  Stop it, stop it, STOP IT.  Done being harsh.  Go back to the numb.  At least then it’s not guilt or hatred or mortification.  Mrs. Brown is going to help me, with Mrs. Fraser.  Not alone.

            I stand, wrap my arms around myself.  I don’t like when I’m like this.  I want to be out of myself.  I feel caged, trapped, clipped…  These thoughts are foreign.  They can’t be mine.  This isn’t me.

            The door opens.  For a brief, ironic second I hope it’s Abby on her tenth trip of the day to the bathroom.  That she’ll laugh at me, or something, and get me out of this funk.  Get me to come back with something snarky so we can both laugh and I can walk back into the classroom with a smirk.

            The scent alerts me to something else.  Someone else.  Someone I did not expect.

            What was she thinking when she decided to come out?  That I’ve been out here too long?  That there was too much commotion in the hall?

            Or could she…care?  Authentically care.  I think yes.  It’s the first positive thought I’ve had in a while and it catches me by surprise.  I stop waiting to hit bottom.  The numbness remains, but I’m not waiting for doom anymore.

            She seems like a caring person.  I’ve watched her for months.  For months she has proved this.  Even with the testy students she’s patient and shows them kindness.  I watch her when she helps other students and it almost always makes me want to smile.  I won’t achieve a smile at this very moment, but the thought is a good one.

            I’m on the receiving end of a tight hug.  My third one in a week for these reasons.  I catch myself wanting to think negative things again and toss them aside.

            Feeling is coming back.  Comfort.  That one sneaks up on me as well.  Words are exchanged but I still barely know what’s going on.  I felt so far away that even now as I’m coming closer, things are still foreign and out of place in my head.  It projects itself into the world—I’m not getting a clear picture of everything that’s going on.  Something has been cut.

            Despite that, I appreciate what she did.  The hug.  The words I can’t recall.  The look, when she first saw me in the hall…

            I appreciate what they are all doing for me.

            Unfortunately, that involves going to Mrs. Roger’s office.  I don’t particularly want to go there.  Now I want to go back into chemistry and do the lab.  All right, so maybe some of that time would be spent observing Mrs. Carr again, but I can’t help it.

            I’ve been amazed again.

            I look back at the room as I’m walking with Mrs. Fraser towards the admin building.  I snuggle into her coat, which she has made me wear.  I pull my manners out of my pocket for the meeting.
            Test anxiety?  Maybe.

            The meeting ends and I walk away from the building alone.  There’s Mrs. Carr with some of my great amount of junk.  Part of me is surprised.

            The other part smiles and says, That’s Mrs. Carr.

            Now to look into therapy…

 

 

 

Birthday

 

            Ugh.  So, after vacation, it’s a wake up day.  Woke up late.  Barely caught the bus.  What’s new?  It’s February.  I’m sixteen.  Joy of all joys, don’t I feel different.  Young and rejuvenated, right?  Or a year wiser?  Or sore from all the pinches?

            I mentally flap my wrist at the idea.

            Birthday.  No big deal.  Not that special.  The day I was birthed…  All right, maybe special to Mum.  That must have been a pain.  …understatement.

            Anyway, boring material.

            Cutting out the cranky.  Smile, Kiwi!  You’re happy, aren’t you?  Let’s see that grudgingly-placed grin.  Once you’ve done it one time you know you won’t stop.  Correctamundo, problem solved.  An authentically happy, smiling Kiwi.

            Despite the fact that she dislikes her birthday, I think briefly before being shushed by the giddy parts of myself.  I smile, thinking about how much I like thinking in third person sometimes.

            Chemistry again!  I’m ready to pass in the work.  As I walk up I see and hear Dana and Lindsay chatting merrily.  I wonder if that paper Lindsay is holding is the one she’s supposed to be passing in…  Is that a bite mark?  I won’t ask.

            I smile up at Mrs. Carr as I staple the paper and put it in the box.  Vacation is brought up.  My smile turns to a grin as I mention that it was my birthday over vacation.

            “What day?” I receive in return.

            I refrain from raising my eyebrow, as I wish to.  There isn’t usually much interest in my birthday.  Not when it’s during a vacation.  My birthday is missed at all costs as it never falls on a school day.  It is one of the things that I hate and love at the very same time.

            “Wednesday.”

            “Oh!” She remarks with a smile I don’t quite recognize.  “What time?”

            Now that’s a bit far.  What’s going on?  Something is fishy times ten.  Plus one hundred.  Because I totally don’t know what time I was born at and, who cares?  Mum doesn’t even know.  And, as previously mentioned, she’s the one who should.  Since, ouch.  I vaguely remember 7:04 being mentioned at some point.

            “Seven…oh four?”

            “Evening or morning?”

            Holy crow!  Okay, this is squicky.  I don’t get it.  Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, over my head and back again for seconds.  Usually I understand what she’s getting at by now, with questions.  Whether it’s what I’m supposed to answer, or what sort of answer she wants…

            Either way, it’s a 75-25% guess because I think Mum may have, at one point, mentioned the morning.  …or the evening.  But I’m pretty sure she said morning?  I’ll go with that.

            “Morning.”

            I was born at a different time than she was.  At first, nothing clicks.

            Then crash.  Wait, what?  She has my birthday?  Er, I have her birthday?  We have the same birthday?  See, that’s what happens in the movies.  That rationalizes why it can’t be happening in my life.  I didn’t just come up here to pass in some work to be told that I share a birthday with one of my admired teachers, did I?

            From the rest of the conversation, I guess I did.

            I’m left thinking about it.  I read horoscopes a lot.  They have loads to do with birthdays.  So much in that subject and the subjects nearby it have to do with birth dates.  I try to ignore it.

            I’ll stick to the science.  That it’s a coincidence.  I happened to be born on the day that, in the past, another person was born on.  That wasn’t uncommon, was it?  …But the fact that I met another person with my birthday, and that I admire her and have grown quite fond of her before knowing?

            I start to wonder.

            It’s something I will bring up often in the future, I’m sure.

 

 

Freedom!

 

            April vacation is finally here.  I didn’t count days or anything, but I’m excited.  Hopeful.  Totally and completely prepared for the break and some fun!

            Eighth period chemistry.  We don’t do much.  How could we?  The one period holding us back from ultimate—albeit temporary—freedom for a week.  It’s pretty well known that we won’t remember well the next time we have school what we did today.

            The bell rings, people leave.  I’m slow.  I’ve been sticking around after the bell rings every day.  I hurry back from algebra, unless I strike up conversation with Mrs. Brown.  I like talking with her too.

            I like being here after the bell rings.  Everything quiets down and settles, even as there’s still hustle and bustle outside.  Cusses and all that.  But I know that with the close of one door it’d all be outside, so I don’t ponder it further.

            Mrs. Carr is sitting in one of those small desks.  Somehow, it looks natural.  She’s smiling and resting her feet on the floor, knees bent above them.  I can barely do that.

            E-mailing?  I believe I was just offered the option to email one of my teachers.  A special teacher.  My…friend?

            First reaction: Sweet!

            The fear catches up and leads me to my second reaction and those that follow, weighing in what I hadn’t considered before.  How scary that idea is.  Emailing her would mean getting inevitably closer.  That’s what I want, right?

            Yes, I admit softly.

            It’s still scary.  I would be emailing her.  Sending her written word and all the mistakes that come with that.  True, everyone makes typos every once in a while.  Misspells.  Uses the incorrect sentence structure…

            Great G’s and G’s, she’s not even an English teacher!  I scold myself.  This is absurd.  If she offered to let me email her, she won’t care if I mess up.  She wouldn’t care even if I sent her an email about homework or tests prior to that.  She has no idea of how I email.  Netspeak?  Grammar nazi?  Somewhere in-between?  Anti-capitalization?  I’ve seen lots of ways to type.

            I’ll do it.  I’ve made up my mind.  When, I don’t know, but I will.

            The when appears later.  Much, much later.  After a blown up face (thanks, cold sores), hip appointments, and a few other yucky things.  But I have good news to report too, for I did have some fun.  Art and such.  I write a long email.  My emails tend to be long…  I’m worried, when I go to press send.  Irrational fears are such a nuisance.  I’ve already spell-checked it three times and read it over twice.  What more can I do?

            Send.

            At least I didn’t censor my thoughts.  I feel guilty when I do that.  Ashamed.  As though I’m hiding something.  That’s a feeling I cannot stand.

 

 

 

Tissues

 

            It is finally the last day of school.  I feel slightly different.  Next year—three months away—I will be a junior in high school.  I will be runner up, after Korkor and his gang.  As scary as that thought is, there is another thought that presses at me.

            I’m leaving her for the summer.

            We’ll email, I’m sure, but it’s never the same as talking.  Not the same as learning from her almost every day in a classroom setting.  It is certainly not the same as observing her.  I’ve found that it’s the habit of a writer, to do that.

            Today I watch carefully, but try to hide it.  I have no idea if she knows.  I’m trying to absorb her like a sponge would so I can last over the summer.  I don’t want to take anything away from her, or course, so if that’s the case I won’t.  But as I don’t think she’s noticing or becoming drained, I don’t think I’m causing any harm.

            I smile down at my working fingers.  I’m not really an origami gal.  These directions just seemed easy so I thought I would go with them.  I might as well create something while I’m in here.  I’m among friends.

            Every so often I look up to get a sense of where she is.  Watch for a moment, go back to work.  I don’t tire of it.  It seems natural to try to get a feel for when she gives that bubbly giggle or deeper chuckle.  I suppose some might call it odd.  It’s useful for me when I try to write a story.

            I’ve been a people-watcher since before I could talk.  An observer.  It’s what I do.  This is special.  This is making sure I take in my fill before I get on that bus.  As much as I don’t want to think about that, I want to make sure I don’t brush it away.  It will happen—I will at some point have to get on that bus and wave to all my teachers as it pulls away.

            Until then, I have the present.

            Lunch runs smoothly.  I feel slightly clingy, following her around.  But I don’t sit to eat with her until I’m invited, and I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t been.  Those have always been my rules.

            I don’t feel like eating very much.  The sadness is coming and I can feel it at the edges of my heart. 

            I miss the opportunity to say goodbye to Ms. Watson.  That’s all right—I’ll have her next year as a teacher.  I at least smile at that thought.  Reunited with Ms. Watson as teacher and student again.  Won’t that be interesting?

            Tristan is nice.  I smile and joke, laugh.  I enjoy our conversations.  I pause sometimes to look at Mrs. Carr.  Checking on her?  I’m not quite sure, but I find myself doing it more often as the time grows nearer.

            I feel bad for leaving Dana and Lindsay, to some degree, but I will see them more often over the summer and certainly hear from them.  It’s acceptable to call them at ten on a warm summer evening and talk for hours.  Even with Dana’s parents it’s acceptable.

            Summer.  I rest my head against the cool, rough wall of Mrs. Smith’s classroom.  My math classroom from freshman year.  We had the desks arranged in a horseshoe, and half the class was always acting up.  Often we celebrated birthdays.  Mine was not among them.

            I look at Mrs. Carr and, even though I’m sad to see it through, I smile ever so slightly.  It’s all right.  My birthday was celebrated enough in becoming special to me.

            Still, my face drops and I can feel the upset.  That is new to me, being able to feel it first.  She wonders how I’m doing.  I give a miniscule smile and say I don’t think it will hit me until later.

            She has the idea to use tissues as white flags to wave us goodbye.  I smile at the thought.  We begin to walk out and I’m pretty sure I’m leaning on her.  It reminds me of a song.  I sing it in my head since it won’t come out—someday I’ll persuade it to come out.

            We’re near the buses when we go to hug.  She stands at almost her full height.  I like that.  It’s a hug fit for the occasion.  I feel even more like a child now, but it feels right.  She whispers and I whisper back.

            For all of a second I worry that my breath smells like the relish from my hotdog.  I want to laugh at the thought, but soon they both trickle away and stop mattering.

            It strikes me as odd to be this exhilarated and yet hesitant at the same time.  I feel safe near her and connected, hesitant to leave.  But knowing I have our friendship means the world to me and it won’t end once I approach my bus.

            The tears jumping from my eyelashes to her clothing are mixed.  I tuck myself near her chin, embracing the safety and comfort fully.  I try to offer her the same.  Some energy, as well.  I remember her often bringing up my energy.

            Soon I’m on the bus and waving as the bus slowly accelerates to follow the others.  All the teachers are waving white tissue flags.  It’s beautiful.  I smile at all these people who mean so much to me, and chuckle to think that I once thought this school would never reach my heart.

            My heart.  I see Mrs. Carr and without even thinking about it offer the biggest smile I’m capable of giving.  I organize my fingers and thumbs into the shape of a heart and send it her way.  I wonder if she sees it.  Regardless, I’m smiling like a buffoon over here and it is absolutely wonderful.  What an unexpected turn of events.

            Turn.  As we turn twice, outlining the school property, I begin to cry.  Glorious sobbing, not from their magnitude but from their reasoning.  I am so very happy.  A wise peer of mine once said the Aggie was like a family, that it became one’s home.

            I had said “bah” to that and convinced myself it would never come close to hurdling the walls of my heart.

            I have never been so happy to be wrong in my life.

            I look over at the school and smile as I cry.  A magnificent school filled with amazing, kind-hearted people.

            Maybe the summer will be longer than I calculated.

Reviews

[Lynn Mariposa]

I felt some tension within "Chemistry". I don't think you specifically mentioned your hip and all the challenges you faced, which created a sort of mystery. Having thought of your hip, later, "Chemistry" really struck me on a different level--how going through hip replacement affected your self-esteem and ability to do what other kids do---not so much physically but in your psyche. and in the connection you felt with peers. I really sensed this feeling in this stanza, "I wish I could just think, and have that be that. That I could accept my thoughts and have them not be so painful. But of course I can't, because that would mean accepting that I'm stupid and useless and even when I'm like this-however sad and unbearable it is-I know that isn't true. It's hidden, but I can still barely pin it as the truth."
"Chemistry" was also a powerful statement to kindness and compassion--how a life can be impacted with a smile or a gentle touch or an e-mail that says you care.
I can't wait to read more from you :)

[Viola Sheen]

I really like this blog. You have written of your experience with your chemistry teacher. It seemed like you really had fun with her and chemistry was one of your favorite subjects. The good think about this blog was that you captured the strong bonds of that teacher and students can have. you canread more chemistry essays at http://www.researchomatic.com/researchpapers/chemistry/

[Nova]

Wow, this was really good. I think you captured very well the relationship of a student and teacher they don't have to be strictly that but they can become friends who you can depend on too. I liked the point of view also. You put your mind to words very well. Great job!